


A Tzimisce's Microwave

by Glory_Of_Mars



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Horror, Tzimisce, fleshcraft, vtm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:42:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glory_Of_Mars/pseuds/Glory_Of_Mars
Summary: You are a sad little appliance aren't you?
Kudos: 3





	A Tzimisce's Microwave

**Author's Note:**

> A short horror dabble I wanted to do. Most effective if you don't think of the title until the end.

Everything is still for a moment. You wake up abruptly but not violently. It is sudden and quick. Perception following void. From one moment you perceive nothing, and the next moment, a dark room surrounds you.   
You cannot move. And there is no way that you could move. There are no bounds on you except that of your own body. Should you decide that this body is yours. 

Your body envelopes you and holds you in place. 

You can only see the room, obscured by darkness, from this angle. You do not know what type of room it is. There are no windows to indicate it's height adjacent to the ground. There are no beds, no toilets, no toys, no couches, no TV's, no paintings or pictures. It simply is a room.

This is not to say that the room is empty. Instead it is filled with unfamiliar shapes that give no clarity as to what a person would do in this room. No connections that anyone could make to this room.  
No space for living or sleeping or eating or loving. 

These objects surrounding you are meaningless.

You hum quietly in the room, for there is nothing else to do.

You do not hear the footsteps approaching from somewhere beyond your vision. 

A figure appears before you but not one that you recognize. They are as alien to you as the other objects in the room, all trapped in their own skins, feeling the same trapsings of the figure.

They hum. 

And it doesn't match the hum of your body, so you suppose they are not a person. Or maybe they are and it is you who is not a person.

Their outstretched limbs touch you and you feel nothing. They press into you, and you feel yourself pressing back into your body, until the blood comes. 

They retreat, but not before you realize with a staunch discomfort that your view is obscured by your own body, retreating after them. A piece of you peeling away and swinging outwards.

You feel as if you are naked, insides exposed as your body opens itself in it's struggle to follow the figure. Luckily, you do not lose that piece of yourself. It is held on by a hinge of self, that while not allowing it to float off, doesn't call the opening to close upon itself again either.

Exposed before the stranger. Something is placed inside. When it is placed, it moves, paws scratching against your innards. It doesn't pain you. Its form is present and calm. You forgive the living creature that has been put in you, for it knows not that it's small hands chip away at you. 

The figure presses itself against you once more, the same loveless touch as before. It does not want to be with you, but simply move you. 

The flesh that had been detained from its escape only by your skinny hinges is pressed back in place. Now it sits over the being that is inside you. 

The figure distinguishes part of its nature to you, as it presses a pattern into you. Speaking in code: not a code that you can speak but one that you can understand.

It commands a cruelty from you.

Some part of you knows what will happen next.   
You hum to yourself much louder, perhaps to cover up the shrieking of what you hold inside. It might make it easier, it might just be necessary for the task.

A sweltering heat takes a hold of you and you feel your blood boil. It doesn't race, but instead bubbles in place within you.

There is a panic within you, within the creature that claws from the hole inside. Where your heart never was. 

Its hair is singing, making the smell of hot death leak from your pores and crevices,

You know it won't be much longer. In matter of fact, you know the precise time that this will end. 

You can't hold your breath and never budge an inch despite the beating that your take from the inside out as the desperate creature within tries to hold onto life and escape your coffin of a body. 

The figure stands politely in wait.

It bursts insides you, filling you with it's brazen blood, appendages battering across the floor of you, and bones broken by a pressure within finding no place to settle but the warm embrace of your unmoving boundaries.

The figure, like a delighted and wicked child, smiles. From several differing places. They smile because you work. All the hard effort they put into twisting you into a device that serves an inhumane purpose and you finally work.

"Sometimes I don't know how I do it. My hands and mind move together, and the seamlessness creates beautiful creatures like you." You don't hear them say.

"I can't put pure reason into why you do what you do after I'm done with you." They continue.

"It just works."


End file.
